


two birds on a wire

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [65]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Happy Ending, M/M, kind of?? but not directly addressed, low-key angst but in that vintage sort of mournful way, newt has been pardoned and the public is unaware of his involvement (in my mind anyway)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 13:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Two birds of a featherSay that they're always gonna stay together—





	two birds on a wire

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "So this line popped into my head the other day and I keep thinking about it and how very Newmann it feels. I hope it inspires a prompt!!! "I’m married to a memory. I don’t know if I can ever really have you back.""

“You’re not the same,” Newt greets, without preamble, the tilt of his head inquisitive, but it’s hiding a skittishness behind it, the way his eyes flicker from one spot to the other, fingers twitching.

Hermann offers a tight-lipped smile. “Well, it has been a decade,” he replies, in what’s attempting to be a neutral tone. It comes out flat and apathetic instead. Newt blinks at him, rapidly.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah. It has.” He fiddles with the cuffs on his shirt—thick, dark, so unlike what he wears in Hermann’s memories, sleeves pulled down. 

Good for hiding the ink etched into his skin. He catches Hermann looking, though—of course he does; Newton Geiszler is nothing if not observant. “I’m not getting rid of them,” he says, sensing what Hermann’s thinking without needing Hermann to say a thing.

“I wasn’t suggesting that you should,” Hermann says, after a beat. “Simply that I would…understand if you wanted to.”

The other gives him a humourless smile. “No you wouldn’t,” he says.

Hermann raises a hand, unconsciously, to rest it on the other’s shoulder; drops it the second he realises what he’s about to do. “No,” he says, soft. “No, I wouldn’t.”

A beat of silence stretches between them; Hermann, perched anxiously on the edge of his chair, fiddling with the head of his cane; Newt, legs hooked in an intricate, senseless pattern around the legs of the chair, rocking back and forth in the tiniest increments, and not meeting Hermann’s eyes.

_We must look quite odd_ , Hermann thinks,  _sat here across from each other at the bar in a tiny kitchen_. Well—odder than usual. Hermann can’t think of a single instance where either of them  _don’t_ look odd.

“It bothers you,” Newt guesses, without clarifying what he means, but the slight catch in his voice, the way that, without thought, his hand strays to where the skull ring once sat is plenty telling.

His tone is wistful, almost.

“Yes,” Hermann admits. “Just…not in the way you think.”

The other’s silence is a clear invitation to continue, so he does. “I’m married to a memory,” he says, not with the intention of cruelty, but a simple statement of fact. “I don’t know if I can ever really have you back. And I…I can no longer pretend otherwise.”

He presses his eyes shut, an automatic reflex against the unexpected tears that rise. 

“…I don’t know either.” Newt’s voice is, for the first time in ages, uncertain. Fearful, even. “I…we’ve both changed, Hermann.”

There’s a pause, like he’s debating if he should continue—

The kettle whistles, loud and shrill, and Newt starts, chair tipping, tipping, tipping—

Before he even realises what he’s doing, Hermann’s hand has shot out, grabbing the other’s wrist and steadying him, fingers tight. They stare at each other for a moment, Newt catching his breath, before he mutters, “Thank you,”, and the moment is gone.

Slightly flustered, he pulls his hand away and clears his throat. “I—yes, w—we have,” he stammers. Why, oh why, does it suddenly feel like he’s lost all grasp of the English language? “We have,” he repeats, in a vain attempt to speak.

Newt eyes him curiously; openly. “Is that a bad thing?” he asks.

Hermann licks his lips and considers the question. “No,” he settles on, “no…I don’t believe so.”

It’s like someone has cut Newt’s strings; he slumps, shoulders relaxing, head dropping forward slightly, and Hermann feels, for a second, blind panic overtake him before Newt says, “I—can we try again, maybe?”

_Try…?_ Oh, he thinks,  _that’s what he means_. “It’s going to be hard,” he says—warns, for his benefit or Newt’s, he doesn’t know. “Both of us are different. We might be to changed to fit.”  _I’m afraid we might be_ , he doesn’t say.

When Newt lifts his head to meet Hermann’s gaze, his jaw is set. “We’ll never know if we don’t try,” he counters, “and I don’t know about you, but—Hermann, I  _want_ to try. I’m sure of it.

He extends his hand, a gesture reminiscent of the one he offered Hermann years and years ago. “What do you say, Hermann?”

[— _Say it with me, my man_ —]

Hermann takes a breath, weighs the risks and rewards, balanced on the knife’s edge. 

Then, he grasps Newt’s hand and says, “Yes.”


End file.
